


Moogla

by Sauou



Category: Banana Bus Squad
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-05 13:03:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6705487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sauou/pseuds/Sauou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brock’s heart catches in his chest, it’s made of glass and bound to break easily. And the words get stuck in his throat as he tries to ask what Nogla is doing, tries to deny anything he’s ever written.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moogla

 

.

Brock had seen the boy several times in school, wandering slowly through the halls, tall as a bean pole and twice as skinny.

“Nogla,” He’d heard him introduce himself as, from the second to last row in the back of class.

“David,” The teacher corrected. “Your name is David.”

.

Nogla always looked like a stiff breeze could just pick him up and carry him away, long and slender and knobby knees that never seemed to fit quite right, all tucked up behind the desk like he was folded wrong.

He hid comic books behind his school books and had to duck his head when he walked doors.

He took an art class on the other side of the building even though, according to Lui, he couldn’t draw for shit.

And he’d always spend so long reading, his nose buried in his book, that he’d loose complete track of time and have to sprint the whole way to his next class.

Bumping into people he meant to slip between and yelling out “Sorry!” and “I meant to do that!” when he trips over his own feet and runs into the walls because he’s taking the corners too fast.

.

Brock writes sonnets in his spare time, and hides them under his math homework whenever anyone looks in his direction.

He pretends listen to the teacher, but his head is in the clouds and words are scattered around his brain.

Brock always arrives way too early to his classes, and gets the seat next to the window, where the sunlight scatters over his desk and thoughts and drifts him through the day.

He daydreams of dark hair and askew glasses.

And his eyes go wide and his face cherry red when his name is called out in class, knees knocking into the bottom of the desk as he tries to jump.

He brushes past people in the halls, always saying “Sorry,” and “I apologize” as he ducks his head at them.

.

Brock blushes when people talk to him. When his friends tease him at lunch over little things. Like the way he said “You too” when the lunch lady told him to enjoy his meal with a soft smile.

She glared at Lui when he started cracking up over it, and tried to deny him vegetables. Only to end up in a yelling contest with him as he held up the entire line to get what he wanted.

They sit on the right side of the cafeteria, where Brock can easily watch the door, and not one of his friends says a word as his eyes easily, and always, catch on the dark man drifting into the lunchroom.

Nose buried in a book. Ducking his head as he walked. Late, as usual.

.

One day, Brock is halfway home when he realizes he’s left his math book and homework still sitting on his desk in the last class.

He considers leaving it there until tomorrow until he realizes, suddenly with wide eyes and a clenching heart, that his notebook of sonnets was left behind too, under the math, where he always hides it.

He turns tail and runs, still several blocks away but he makes good time and he sprints as fast as he can. Almost running into the glass doors when he reaches the school, he barely slows down at all.

And school has already been let out for an hour at this point, there’s no one left roaming the halls except for a teacher here or there who give him odd looks and tell him to “Be careful” and “Slow down before you hurt yourself”.

But he left his notebook behind and _that’s the worst sin of all_ , he thinks to himself as he rounds the corner to his last class.

.

Nogla always misses the boy who sits by the window.

He never has time between classes to talk to him, Brock leaves so early Nogla could swear he’s up before the class even ends.

And he gets so adsorbed in his comics he doesn’t even notice anything until the room is empty and the bell has already started ringing for the next class, so he has shove his stuff into his backpack and sprint as fast as he can.

.

Stumbling into the room wobbly and out of breath.

With the boy he always watches sitting at his desk, and holding his notebook.

Brock’s heart catches in his chest, it’s made of glass and bound to break easily. And the words get stuck in his throat as he tries to ask what Nogla is doing, tries to deny anything he’s ever written.

But Nogla is looking up at him, slowly, his mind still too captured in the pages before him to really process what’s going on as he stares at Brock and sees him, not anew, but complete.

As if this was the missing piece he had been searching for. The words Brock always thought, but could never say.

“It’s good,” he gets out eventually, to Brock’s relief.

And, “I’ve watched you too” as the man stumbles into the room, legs shaking from so many things that Brock has to sit down before he falls down, sliding into the desk closest to the door.

.

Nogla doesn’t want to stop reading, or give back the book ever, because he likes it and he wants to keep it, but it belongs to Brock in the end, so he compromises.

“Here,” he says, standing up and pulling open his backpack. “You can read mine if you want.”

Walking over to Brock and, sitting down next to him, hands over his sketchbook.

Brock takes it carefully, hesitantly. Asking, “Are you sure?” even though Nogla is gesturing for him to open it and see. Being mindful not to tear or bend the pages as he flips the cover open.

And it’s him.

It’s Brock, sitting at the window, head in the clouds, sketched across the pages. Brock at lunch time, laughing with his friends. Brock ducking between people in the hallways.

Brock, drawn with so much care and patience that Nogla couldn’t have thought of anything else. Probably never did think of anything else.

Brock, his face quickly turning a bright cherry red as he looks up and asks, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Why didn’t you?” Nogla grins back at him.

.

_Love is not contained_   
_in fragments of sensibility or_   
_thought._

_pieces of me that you don’t see._

_places that only you have gone._

_dark caresses of dark hair_   
_skin so smooth and pale_

_that I love, that I care for,_   
_that I want to know better._

 


End file.
